


Fallingforyou

by harrietelizabeth



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:50:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2059995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrietelizabeth/pseuds/harrietelizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Louis’ fault that Zayn was here tonight, and it was Zayn’s fault that Liam was standing there, wasted and alone in the upstairs bathroom, feeling the muffled thump of the bass through his shoes. He really needed to find some new friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallingforyou

Liam took a deep breath and met the eyes of his own reflection in the mirror. He looked…well, he looked a mess. His eyes were glassy, his lips slack, tee shirt hanging loosely off his collarbones, and he was trying, with all the sober capacity left available to him, to figure out how he got here, to this point, bent over the sink in an upstairs bathroom, feeling the muffled thud of the sound system through his feet.

The frat house, well, that was Louis’ fault. He was a couple of years older than Liam, on the football team with him, and, apparently, very persuasive when it came to housing arrangements. Liam was grateful at the time, of course, to be accepted by someone like Louis, who had half the campus eating out of his hand (or wishing they could get close enough to do so). Liam did sometimes wonder, though, what it would be like to not come home to his room being turned upside down (literally, down to every last book on his shelf) or being woken up at 5am on a Sunday by Louis with a megaphone and a dozen beers.

All things considered though, it wasn’t that bad, apart from the parties every weekend when Liam really needed to be studying, because he was only in college on scholarship, after all, and he wasn’t the type of guy who could just whip a B+ average out his ass. The parties were nearly always Louis’ fault as well. He always seemed to have an excuse to invite people over – end of the football season, start of the football season, the end of exams, his second-cousin’s birthday, scoring a date with someone he’d been thirsting after for months. Louis knew so many people as well, had one of those magnetic personalities that people seemed drawn to; his voice always came out louder than you expected from such a small body, but then, Liam figured, he had to find some way of getting your attention from all the way down there.

So the being in a frat house and the constant parties, he had Louis to blame for that, but it still didn’t account for his being in this bathroom. He would get to that; he wasn’t quite done blaming Louis for his other misfortunes yet – hangovers, always being late to class, being made to run extra drills at practice because they were messing around, getting embarrassed in front of girls because Louis would give him dumb pickup lines and dare him to use them on unsuspecting freshers. And because Liam was a maybe-a-little-desperate-to-impress sophomore and Louis was an openly-gay-and-obscenely-popular senior, Liam obeyed. The worst part was, the pickup lines sometimes worked, and girls would giggle and bite their lip or sip their drink, lips wrapped around the straw like they needed to make the metaphor clearer. Then Liam would have to talk to them, pulling the fingers at Louis over his shoulder while Louis doubled over with laughter, making obscene gestures with Harry and Niall.

It was Harry and Niall’s fault that Louis knew Liam didn’t really like talking to girls; didn’t really like girls, if he was being completely honest. Aside from being on the football team and living with Liam and Louis, they were the most hands-on couple Liam had ever encountered, all food fights in the shared kitchen which ended in them licking tomato sauce off each other and Liam and Louis ordering takeout for the next week. The way they were so comfortable with each other, and the way Louis was so comfortable with his sexuality, made Liam want a part of that, rather than his own vague sense of difference that had trailed him from high school, never quite strong enough for him to act on it. So he’d asked Louis, how had he known he wasn’t straight, how had people reacted when he came out, what was it like being with a guy. Louis, being Louis, had asked Liam if he needed someone to practice on, but once he’d stopped being an asshole he had actually managed to give Liam some words of encouragement, telling him he had his back if he wanted to be out, and that it didn’t matter if he wanted to keep it to himself for a while.  
“You know where I live if you get curious though,” he’d said with a wink as he stood in the doorway to his room, right opposite Liam’s, his hip cocked suggestively. Liam had thrown an economics textbook at him, but that was months ago. And still Liam didn’t really know how he’d got here, into this state. He couldn’t even blame it on Louis this time, although he had given Liam one of his worst pickup lines yet: “Excuse me, do you have a bandaid? I scraped my knee when I fell for you.” His cheeks flushed at the memory of actually saying those words to someone, to some poor Rebecca or Abigail who’d laughed and touched his arm, saying she didn’t have a bandaid but he could have some of her drink to numb the pain. That was Louis’ fault, yes, and mostly the reason he’d gone to the bathroom to escape, but Liam’s glassy eyes and the unfamiliar flush in his cheeks, that wasn’t.

That was Zayn’s fault.

Then again, technically Liam could blame Louis for Zayn, too, because he was in Louis’ American Lit class, and Liam would never have met him if it wasn’t for Louis and his need to be surrounded by attractive people at all times. He should be flattered, he guessed, because Louis liked having him around (not that he acted like it most of the time), but there was attractive – Harry, Niall, Louis, the other guys on the team, and then there was ZAYN. He didn’t even live on the same planet as the rest of them. He came from some other universe where everyone was dark and slightly dishevelled, with an impeccably groomed five o’clock shadow ghosting their razor-sharp jawline. He was always aloof and distant around Liam, but even that didn’t diminish him in Liam’s eyes. He knew why, anyway. Liam liked football, R&B and playing Fifa World Cup, while Zayn was a straight A, full scholarship student who liked….well, Liam didn’t know, exactly. He imagined sophisticated interests: fine wine, classics novels, bands Liam didn’t even know existed. And girls, probably. Liam felt like he was boring Zayn whenever they talked, which was hardly ever, because Zayn was always talking to someone infinitely more attractive and interesting than Liam, and if Liam had tried to say something, Zayn probably wouldn’t have been able to hear him over the sound of panties dropping in his presence. Louis was always cagey when Liam tentatively (casually, asking-for-a-friend, oh what’s his name again?) asked why Zayn was so…Zayn-like, and shrugged it off by saying Zayn was just shy, kept to himself, a bit introverted. Liam was sceptical, though – guys with eyes and haircuts and tattoos like Zayn had nothing to be shy about. So, he reminded himself, his reflection swimming back into focus: it was Louis’ fault that Zayn was here tonight, and it was Zayn’s fault that Liam was standing there, wasted and alone in the upstairs bathroom, feeling the muffled thump of the bass through his shoes. He really needed to find some new friends.

Liam finally coaxed himself back downstairs, vowing to stop drinking and to avoid both Louis and Zayn for the rest of the night. So, naturally, Louis was the first person he saw as he walked out of the bathroom, and he was conspiring with, by an extra stroke of misfortune, none other than Zayn at the bottom of the stairs. Liam considered for a moment what would happen if he threw himself down the stairs and broke his back: no football for a while, sure, but at least he’d have an excuse to leave the party. That was another downfall of living in a fraternity – you couldn’t just leave when things got awkward. Unless it was in an ambulance. He shook himself out of his reverie as Zayn and Louis looked up at him, Louis with an expression like a naughty child caught out, and Zayn with – Liam gulped – a wide open grin that squeezed his eyes half-shut, glittering and dark, and showed off his perfect (was there anything about him that wasn’t?) teeth. And wow, ok, that was – that was different. Liam wasn’t used to Zayn looking at him with anything other than polite interest, if that, and the shock must have shown on his face, because Zayn’s expression quickly relaxed back into its usual air of disinterested cool.  
“Liam!” exclaimed Louis, drunk and affectionate as always. He said it ‘lee-yum’, and wiggled his eyebrows as he pronounced it, shoving a cup of his infamous punch into Liam’s hand. Great. The three things he’d sworn off for the rest of the night, all rolled into one. The unholy trinity.  
“Lewis,” said Liam, knowing he would get a punch in the arm for his mispronunciation. Then suddenly he was pulled into a headlock and Louis was rubbing his knuckles into Liam’s scalp.  
“Ow!” he yelped in a way that was the exact opposite of dignified. Fuck it. If it had been a punch in the arm he could’ve just shrugged it off, looking (he imagined) cool and tough in front of Zayn (who was standing there with a semi-amused smirk on his face, and Liam would be damned if even that didn’t turn him on). But he hadn’t been prepared for this, so now he was yelping, yes yelping, in front of someone who read Hemingway when he had time off from assignments. It was Louis’ fault he knew that, of course. Also Louis’ fault that he was currently in this situation, but Liam was bigger than him (it wasn’t hard), so he shoved him off, maybe a little bit harder than necessary, and Louis stumbled.  
“Easy tiger,” he said, flicking his hair back into place.  
“You asked for it,” Liam said defiantly. He still couldn’t meet Zayn’s eye.  
“Mmm, you know I like it rough,” Louis rasped, sidling up to Liam in mock-flirtation. He really could be an ass sometimes.  
“We all know that, mate,” said Zayn suddenly, and Liam finally looked at him, his heart clenching as he saw Zayn’s eyes bright with suggestion and the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. Before Liam could interpret what that meant – did Louis and Zayn have something? Were they past lovers? – Louis interrupted.  
“At least I’m not a tease, Malik,” he quipped with a wink, calling Zayn by his last name, a habit he’d picked up from their football coach. Liam was starting to feel like he was intruding on this flirtatious exchange, so he made a move to walk past them and back to the party, but Louis clapped a hand on his shoulder (it was quite a reach for him) and stopped him in his tracks.  
“We’re going out for a smoke, Payne-o, wanna join?” There was the last name thing again; Liam wondered if Louis did it to sound more authoritarian; he was definitely the dictator type. He could see Louis as a coach one day, barking orders like a little terrier and making kids like Liam run extra drills.  
“Do I have a choice?” Liam asked, knowing the answer already. He downed his drink, because he could only smoke when he was wasted, and raised an eyebrow at Louis.  
“That’s the spirit,” said Louis, giving his shoulder a couple of slaps before steering Liam towards the back door, Zayn in close step behind them.

Liam relaxed a little once they were outside; the fresh night air cleared his head and slowed down his thoughts somewhat. He shouldn’t blame Louis for so much, he thought, should probably thank him for inviting Zayn, really, because how else would Liam ever get to hang out with someone like him? Become one of those students who lurked in the corner of the comic book store where Zayn worked part-time, pretending to pore over the latest Marvel while secretly hoping Zayn would glance up through those fatal lashes and notice him? Take up a class on the great American poets? No, he was destined only to encounter Zayn in the dim light of his backyard, with Louis to blame, or to thank, depending on how you looked at it, pulling out a little plastic bag of weed and a packet of papers from his pocket. Oh, so it was that type of smoke, Liam thought. Of course it was – two American Lit students with more tattoos than they could count on their fingers and toes? He should’ve known. He didn’t even smoke weed, which Louis knew, the ass, and now he was either going to look like a square in front of Zayn for not smoking, or like a fraud in front of Louis for smoking just because Zayn was there. He knew which one he preferred.  
“You didn’t think I meant a cigarette did you, Lee-yum?” Louis asked in mock-surprise. Liam hadn’t even said anything about the weed, for Christ’s sake. He was going to beat ten kinds of crap out of Louis.  
“It’s just a leetle spleef,” said Zayn, and then he and Louis collapsed into snorts and giggles, while Liam tried to figure out how it was possible that he was the most sober person standing there. Maybe the weed would be a good thing, would help him relax, because right now his thoughts couldn’t stop fast-forwarding, pausing, rewinding, making him think of things that shouldn’t even matter – whether Zayn had seen him talking to Rebecca/Abigail, if he and Louis had ever slept together, if his bloody hair looked alright. He should’ve checked it in the bathroom before, but he’d been too busy blaming Louis for everything that had led him to this particular point in his life. He didn’t know if he was quite done with that yet.

He was right, the joint did help him relax. A little too much, maybe – now he was anchored to the ragged couch that had been dragged outside, with Louis tucked in by his left elbow and Zayn perched to his right, on the arm of the couch. They were watching Niall and Harry play beer pong with James and Nick, two other guys from the football team, while Zayn smoked a cigarette and Louis kept saying he was going to talk to Nick but didn’t move. Liam was fixated on the way Harry’s body turned constantly towards Niall’s, the way Niall’s hand glided down Harry’s back, the way they could lean in so close to talk, so close that Liam couldn’t even see their lips moving, and for it to look completely natural. It felt like things were moving at half their usual pace, but then time would jump forward unexpectedly. Liam was replaying moments from earlier in the evening in his mind, then would suddenly realise Louis had actually gone to talk to Nick, or Niall was sitting next to him, saying something about finding his guitar. His thoughts sent him reeling backwards again; he’d been upstairs grabbing more beers from the ‘emergency fridge’ in Niall’s room, when he’d heard Louis-pitched shouts from downstairs and glanced out the window. The sun was just setting outside, slinking lazily into the horizon the same way Liam walked into class when he was late in the morning. Zayn had pulled up on a bike with a frame that was too small for him – deliberate, obviously – all tattoos and taut muscles. For some reason, Liam had expected a motorbike and leather, but he figured that was a little out of the financial reach of someone in their third year of a college degree who worked part time at the comic book store, and was probably responsible for two-thirds of the girls in their general area who read (or bought, and pretended to read) comics. And a quarter of the boys, too. Of course, it was Louis’ fault that he knew this. Present-Liam looked up, hearing the sharp sound of Zayn’s cough next to him; like Liam, he hadn’t moved since they’d smoked the joints Zayn had rolled with his thin, deft fingers. Now that Liam was caught in the present moment, he couldn’t move from the parameters of this nanosecond, watching Zayn scrunch his face up as the smoke blurred his eyes. The light hit Zayn like he was a star in one of those crappy old films that Louis sometimes made Liam sit through for his literature class, all soft and backlit. It was just the floodlight attached to the porch, but even Louis looked like some kind of dreamboat in the way he sidled up to Nick and his friends with his hips jutting forward, which usually made Liam want to hit him. Instead he felt a warm, soft feeling in the pit of his stomach, and a small smile crept across his face watching Louis chat to the boys. Zayn, though…Zayn was, well, Zayn, and the feeling Liam got when he looked over at him was not warm and soft. It was a sharp pang of longing and a searing, burning sensation at the base of his spine, making his cheeks flush as he looked at Zayn, half-illuminated and squinting through the smoky haze that surrounded him.  
“Smoke, mate?” Zayn interrupted Liam’s tangent, and time finally sped back up to its usual pace. Liam wondered how long he’d been staring at Zayn, and if anyone had noticed. He wondered if Zayn had noticed. He wondered what Zayn’ skin would feel like under his fingertips. He managed to nod in assent to the cigarette, and extend his hand to take the smoke and Zayn’s silver Zippo, but fumbled when their fingers touched and dropped the lighter into the grass with a soft thud.  
“Sorry,” he croaked. His voice sounded foreign in his ears, and he blindly went to retrieve the Zippo, at the same time as Zayn mumbled “S’alright” and reached for the same spot. Their fingers bumped again, and Liam wondered if it was his mind replaying an earlier moment over again. But no, this time it was Zayn who said sorry, eventually picking up the lighter and holding it up to the cigarette in Liam’s mouth. He didn’t even smoke, for Christ’s sake, Louis was sure to notice any second and come over to give him shit. But Liam found he didn’t care as Zayn’s fingers brushed his chin, cool and light just before he pulled the flame away ad clicked the lighter shut. At the last second. Liam remembered to inhale, remembered he needed the oxygen that was slowly draining out of his body from the way Zayn looked at him. But he took in too much – the smoke clogged his lungs and then was forced back out in a sharp cough, his eyes watering. Oh Jesus, that was just what he needed, looking like an amateur in front of Zayn who’d just loaned him a cigarette and let him smoke his weed. Great.  
“Don’t hit it so hard,” said Zayn softly, and Liam looked up at him, thanking Mary, Joseph and Jesus simultaneously for the fact that it was dark and Zayn (hopefully) couldn’t see the flush in his cheeks. “Just breathe in normal, like,” Zayn continued, shifting from the arm of the couch to the seat next to Liam, so that the light fell away from his face and left him in silhouette. Liam obeyed, feeling utterly ridiculous, taking another slower puff of the cigarette.  
“Hold it just there,” said Zayn, barely audible over the low hum of the bass, and put his finger on Liam’s chest, between his ribs. It was like Liam was sitting in an electric chair: he was rooted to the spot, tingling and buzzing, so much so that he thought he must be returning the shock to Zayn. But Zayn just took his finger off Liam’s chest as quickly as he put it there, making Liam wonder if it had really happened at all. Then just like that, Zayn stood up and walked over to where Louis was talking to Nick and the other guys, slotting into their conversation as if they’d all been waiting for him to come over and complete the circle. Which, Liam thought, they probably had been. Waiting for Zayn to stop wasting his breath and his cigarettes on Liam, who couldn’t even say a god damned thank you. What was wrong with him? He knew weed killed your brain cells, but that fast, really? He smoked one joint and now he was some idiot who couldn’t even thank his mate (or whatever Zayn was) for a smoke? He pretended not to see Louis beckoning to him, and was relieved when Niall and Harry came over and sat either side of him on the couch, guitar in tow. Niall cleared his throat and said “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Wonderwall,” then launched into Wheatus, and everyone laughed. That was Niall in a nutshell – no matter what he did, people always seemed to laugh. He could tell you your dog was dying of cancer and you’d probably just chuckle understandingly. That was the effect he had on people. He could sing, too, Liam realised, and Harry joined in, his voice deeper and raspier than his boyfriend’s, and soon everyone was belting “no, she don’t know what she’s missing” in various interpretations of the melody. Liam looked over to see if Zayn would stoop to partaking in this revelry, but he was too deep in conversation with Louis, the both of them grinning, eyes soft and hooded. It looked like they were flirting again, Liam thought, but maybe he was reading too much into it? Maybe that was just how Zayn was, all licking lips and looking up and down through those god damned lashes, maybe it all meant nothing. Harry was like that too, touchy feely, especially when he was drunk like he was now, arm draped round Liam’s shoulders, reaching over to rub Niall’s cheek. And that smile – Harry’s smile was so wide you thought it was made just for you – he couldn’t possibly smile that for everyone, it just wasn’t natural. Liam had thought Harry was flirting with him the first time they’d met, at the frat house initiation, Liam overwhelmed by Harry’s long limbs and loose lips. When he’d confided in Louis about it, Louis had laughed for about ten minutes until his voice was hardly more than a whisper, then told Niall that his boyfriend fancied the new guy – joking, of course, but Liam had thought Niall was going to kill him. He and Harry fought about it so much it was a running joke between all of them – “Who was that you were talking to?” Niall would ask, not really accusatory, until Louis added “Talking? He practically fucked you with his eyes, Harry,” and Liam would chime in “He was fit though, damn, did you get his number?” Everyone knew that was just how Harry was – he would flirt with old ladies as he helped them across the street (because that was just who Harry was too); hell, Liam had even seen him flirt with inanimate objects, sweet-talking the toast into popping sooner so he wouldn’t be late to class. Though he probably could’ve flirted his way out of an argument with his lecturer, anyway. That was Harry, take it or leave it (or as Louis liked to say, “take it or give it, Niall, which is it?”) Maybe Zayn was just like that too. Maybe the way he chewed his lip in slow motion when he looked over at Louis was just in his nature, or the way he looked Nick up and down while he laughed at one of Louis’ lame jokes was simply the way he looked at everyone. Liam honestly could not tell. It was like high school all over again, Liam thought as he looked around, trying to read messages and signals and body language like it was some sort of science, like there was a formula you could use to work out whether someone was gay or straight, or into you or not. He knew there was no such thing, so why was he so intently focused on every one of Zayn’s little shrugs, his eyebrow raises and small smiles? He knew why, god damn it, and it wasn’t good news.

Time had jumped forward again – Harry and Niall were gone, hands all over each other as they challenged some unsuspecting girls to another round of beer pong, lips on each other’s necks as they whispered encouragements – presumably that’s what they were – to one another. Liam was about to summon himself to his feet, or at least attempt to move his pinkie toe, when Zayn and Louis collapsed onto the couch on either side of him, Zayn pressed up against him this time rather than perched on the arm of the couch. Liam tried to retrieve the thought he’d had just before about Zayn being a mate, but all he could think was that he didn’t want to be Zayn’s friend, he wanted his lips on Zayn’s neck, to feel the roughness of his stubble against his mouth. He was reeling in Zayn’s presence, eyes glazed and heart beating out of his chest; he was every song he’d ever listened to, he was a walking fucking cliché. He needed to be stopped.  
“Alright, mate?” Louis wheezed from beside him. His voice got even more raspy and high pitched when he was stoned.  
“M’alright, yeah,” Liam managed to respond, turning his head towards Louis so he wouldn’t have to look at Zayn in that cursed light that made his eyelashes look a thousand miles long. There was a song in there too, somewhere.  
“Nick is an ass,” Louis sighed, dropping his head onto Liam’s shoulder.  
“You’re perfect for each other then,” Liam said drily, and he heard Zayn snort next to him. He felt a rush of blood to his heart; if that was the weed talking, he needed to start getting stoned more often, if it made him even remotely funny to Zayn.  
“Ha ha, very funny,” Louis scowled, folding his arms and scrunching himself lower into the couch. For someone with a personality the size of a small European country, he really could squeeze into some tight spaces.  
“Awww, don’t sulk,” said Zayn, a grin still on his face as he reached across Liam to ruffle Louis’ hair. His arm pressed against Liam’s chest, and for a few seconds Liam could see the patchwork of his tattoos in full detail, though there were too many to make out each one exactly. Then Zayn’s arm was gone and Liam was left staring into space again. He guessed it was his turn to say something. Thankfully, though, he was saved from having to come up with anything witty and/or inspiring, as Niall shouted at them from the beer pong table. It appeared Harry was having trouble standing, and Niall needed reinforcements against the gleeful looking girls. Before any of them could protest against moving, Louis, in a voice that only the three of them could hear, said, “Can’t hear ya mate, weed too loud.” And just like that, they dissolved into a cloud of shaking, quivering, breathless laughter, the kind that only happened when you were this high, Liam figured, because why else would he be laughing so hard tears were squeezing out of the corners of his eyes, why would Zayn be leaning in to him, gasping like was taking his dying breath, at something as idiotic as what Louis had just said?

Next thing any of them knew, Niall was standing over them with a tray of shots – punishment, he said, for making him lose beer pong to a couple of girls. Louis reminded him it was technically Harry’s fault, though he was exempt from blame apparently, tucked up safely in bed, which was a surprise to no one. Liam took a shot off the tray, hardly registering the consequences, and counted down along with Louis, Niall and Zayn. Zayn, whose thigh was still pressed up alongside Liam’s and burning worse than the liquor, which he realised was whiskey (it was from Niall, of course it was whiskey). It tasted like dirty bathrooms and smoke. He heard Louis spluttering next to him, and turned to see Zayn screwing up his face in disgust. Niall was laughing his head off, of course, and took the last remaining shot glass off the tray, necked it, then sprawled across Zayn, Liam and Louis’ laps. All of a sudden, Liam’s brain was back to moving in slow motion. He saw the cup of beer Zayn was holding to his chest, saw Niall’s skinny-jean-clad legs go flying, them the amber liquid glisten in the porch light and finish its brief journey all down the front of Zayn’s tee shirt. Then it was hallucinations – Zayn peeling the wet shirt off his lean, wiry body, flinging it on the ground and moving in slow motion towards Liam, his torso flashing amber golden in the light. But all that happened in reality was Louis swearing at Niall, Zayn gaping down at his tee shirt, and Liam stifling a giggle. That set them all off – Niall laughed so hard he rolled off the couch onto the grass, lying on his back with his hands clasped on his stomach, shaking with uncontrollable laughter. Liam’s chest literally hurt – he didn’t think he’d laughed this much in his entire life. The high was starting to wear thin now, but it was being replaced by liquid confidence, by virtue of the whiskey shot. It must’ve been that – there was no other circumstance in which he would have found himself inviting Zayn to borrow a clean tee shirt from his room. Somehow, though, it worked. 

He felt like he was having a minor panic attack as Zayn followed him upstairs – was his room tidy enough? Did it smell? Had he put away the ‘flesh light’ masturbation torch that Louis had given him on his initiation? Jesus Christ, Liam, it’s a tee shirt, he told himself. It felt like a lot more than a tee shirt, though, when Zayn closed the door behind him and leaned against it, watching Liam go over to his drawers, praying to the patron saint of clothing that he had something clean. Then he felt light hands on the small of his back, thin, cool fingers reaching under his shirt. Instinctively he straightened up, turning round to come face to face with Zayn, who had discarded his beer-stained shirt somewhere on Liam’s floor. Liam was – surprised? flattered? terrified? to see the same fear Liam felt pounding in his chest reflected in Zayn’s eyes. Liam had thought he was drunk, but now he could see everything perfectly clearly. Every one of Zayn’s eyelashes stood out against his cheek in HD, the light stubble on his chin was hyper-real, so close to Liam’s face that he leaned in to graze his lips across it, tasting smoke and weed and Zayn’s sweet, heavy scent. Now he was intoxicated again, head spinning with the feeling of Zayn’s hands on his shoulders and his lips millimetres away from Liam’s own, a small sound croaking in the back of his throat as Liam’s mouth touched the side of his jaw again. Their lips hadn’t even touched yet and Liam still felt like it was too much, too hard to believe he was here. Liam couldn’t quite understand how they weren’t kissing, because even the air around him felt like Zayn, even the ground beneath his feet. He tried to think how he’d gone from drunk and mildly irritated in the bathroom to hot and breathless against his drawer set, but the fragments of the night were slipping through cracks in his memory. The only thing he wanted to hold onto, anyway, was this moment, the fraction of a second before Zayn’s lips met his, every miniscule, insignificant moment leading to this. Zayn kissed him like it was the one thing he’d been put on this earth to do, his fingers firm on the back of Liam’s neck, tongue gently licking at Liam’s lips until they opened wide enough for Zayn to slip his tongue into Liam’s mouth. Liam had no idea how to respond; he was still in shock, unable to process the fact that he was here, kissing Zayn – well, being kissed by Zayn. Then instinct kicked in, and Liam kissed back, maybe a little harder than he’d meant to, changing their position so that Zayn was backed up against Liam’s wardrobe door, Liam pulling at his bottom lip with his teeth. Another throaty breath from Zayn and Liam thought he was going to implode, his hands finding Zayn’s shoulders and holding him, mostly so that he wouldn’t fall to the floor. Zayn got the message that things were moving up a notch and pulled Liam’s shirt over his head, parting their lips for a brief second and causing a reluctant sigh from both of them in unison. Then Zayn’s hands found the belt loops on Liam’s jeans and pulled their hips closer together; thank God, Liam thought as their bodies brushed against each other, he wasn’t the only one in the room with a hard on that could slay a dragon.

He wondered if Zayn had done this before, then he wondered if Zayn would realise Liam had never done this before, not with a guy. He remembered his first time with a girl, his high school girlfriend who had seemed so eager to please him, even though it was her first time too. He’d seen the nerves in her neck as she’d knelt down to suck him off, telling him she wanted to, something he couldn’t quite understand at the time but was grateful for anyway. He knew now though, felt the desire to know every part of Zayn, to taste every inch of him, to give him that shuddering pleasure, swallow him down like Liam’s girlfriend had been too afraid to do. He imagined himself in her position now as he knelt down swiftly in front of Zayn, fingers fumbling with the button on Zayn’s jeans and Zayn’s hands going to the roots of his hair. He imagined what would feel good for him – long, slow pulls with his mouth, lingering over the head to swipe his tongue across the end, then swallowing him all the way back down until Zayn was hitting the back of Liam’s throat. The grip on his hair tightened and Zayn let out a choked “Jesus.” Liam pulled his mouth off quickly, saying “am I doing it wrong? It’s my first time, sorry,” before he could stop and think. Zayn looked down at him incredulously, and Liam was struck once again by how beautiful he was, his chest rising and falling quickly, his eyes so painfully dark.  
“No, you’re –“ Zayn panted, frowning slightly. Liam was about to get back to his feet and run out of the room – he’d given Zayn, THE Zayn Malik the worst head in the history of fellatio, he was sure of it. “This is really your first time?” he asked, and Liam nodded, face burning, and this time it wasn’t dark, so there was no hiding it. This could not get any worse. “Shit,” said Zayn, eyes closed, his head falling back against the wall. Forget running out of the room, Liam was preparing to jump out of the window; his blowjob was that bad Zayn could only use detached expletives to describe it. “Sorry, I just – it feels fucking amazing, I can’t believe you’ve never done it before.” Liam took a minute to process this information, then his thoughts finally managed to register that Zayn was enjoying this. Liam was not the worst head he’d ever had. “I just – I think I’m gonna come really fast, and I don’t know if that’s the best thing for your first experience,” Zayn was saying, but Liam wasn’t listening. His lips had found Zayn’s cock again, were pressing down on it until Liam’s forehead hit Zayn’s stomach. Zayn’s hand was on the back of his head, holding him there, and Liam let him thrust gently into his mouth a couple of times, strangled sighs escaping into the air above him, before he felt Zayn’s whole body convulse and tasted him on the back of his throat. Liam was dizzy, only just managed to swallow with Zayn still in his mouth, couldn’t believe this was happening; it had felt so good he was close to climax himself. Then Zayn pulled him to his feet, was kissing his neck roughly, his hands already going to the waistband of Liam’s jeans as he steered him over to the bed. Zayn barely had to push; as soon as the backs of Liam’s knees hit the bed he let himself fall backwards, Zayn quickly getting to his knees at the side of the bed and running his hands up Liam’s thighs, making his dick throb with anticipation. He needed to come, like pronto. As soon as Zayn’s mouth was on him, though, he started thinking the opposite; he needed this to last as long as possible. Zayn’s mouth was unbelievably hot and wet, dragging incessantly along the length of Liam’s cock, making him arch his back into the mattress and let out strangled little cries that were as far from sexy as it was possible to be. He was focusing his entire being, down to every last atom in his body, on not coming immediately, but it was becoming more and more difficult by the second as Zayn started moaning around his cock, his head moving faster and faster as Liam lost vision, lost sensation in his legs, couldn’t even hear the ridiculous sounds coming out of his own mouth, could only feel the blinding white heat building in his stomach until he thought he was actually going to die.  
“M’gonna –“ he managed to choke out before his entire body clenched and he felt Zayn’s mouth tighten around him, drawing his orgasm out unbearably long. Liam thought he must’ve blacked out for a couple of seconds, because when he was able to open his eyes and make out shapes, Zayn’s head was above him, looking down at him incredulously.  
“I think you killed me,” Liam said hoarsely, his body feeling like it was fused to the bed covers. Zayn smiled mischievously, and Liam had never wanted to kiss anyone so badly. Not even Zac Efron in Bad Neighbours.  
“If you were dead I couldn’t do this,” said Zayn, and bent down to kiss him, pulling at his lip gently so Liam let out a soft sigh. Ok, maybe he wasn’t dead. But he was on another fucking planet, that was for sure, because there was no way on earth that Zayn Malik was kissing him, tasting like Liam’s come, half naked on Liam’s bed. Nope, that was not a thing that was happening. 

Except, he realised when he opened his eyes, it really was. No flashbacks, daydreams or fantasies; it was really happening. Liam wanted to grasp the moment with every fibre of his being, made himself focus on the way Zayn’s lips felt against his, the way his eyelashes lightly grazed Liam’s cheek when he tilted his head, the soft breath against Liam’s lips when Zayn pulled off. Liam was counting the seconds, stowing them away for later, cataloguing them as they went past him. This was entirely Louis’ fault, and Liam really owed him a beer or something.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! feel free to leave comments/kudos and stop by my tumblr! (heauxrystyles.tumblr.com)


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